Hollywood Scream Play (15 page)

Snickers can be heard throughout the sound stage.

“What does he mean by that?” Emma asks the wardrobe mistress.

“She used to do…well, let’s just say she’s a method actress from Chatsworth.” The woman, Leda Smathers, laughs raucously. “This afternoon should be interesting, to say the least. Reed Horwitch may be an amateur, but he’s ‘gifted,’ too.” She holds her hands apart by about a foot as she winks knowingly at Emma.

Emma blushes, and I know why. Reed has been flirting with her from the moment he plopped down into her make-up chair.

As fascinated as my children are with the production, I know where they will be for the rest of the afternoon: 
anywhere but here.

Addison has been reluctant to come forward with who is actually playing me in the film. In fact, he has sworn the cast and crew to secrecy, warning them that they’ll be docked a week’s worth of pay if they mention or spread rumors as to whom she is, so my snooping has turned up bupkis.

When I ask him why he can’t reveal who she is, even to me, he opens his arms wide. “I don’t want it leaked until she arrives with the reporter from
Variety
, since I promised that rag the scoop.”

Oh my God! She must be someone huge.

Trisha stares at Darla Hood, the nine-year-old starlet who plays her in the movie. Noting my youngest daughter’s fascination, Darla comes over to say hello. “So, how did I do?”

“Okay…I guess,” Trisha says. She hesitates, then adds, “But you don’t really look like me.”

"Sure I do, only I'm smarter and cuter." Darla blows a perfect nicotine vapor smoke ring high above Trisha's head before turning off her electronic cigarette. Seems that Darla is practicing smoking for her next film, an eighties-era coming-of-age tween flick that, at least according to her mother, Darla Senior, will be her “breakout film.”

Trisha's tiny hands curl into fists. "I don't think you’re prettier! Frankly, I think you're too old!"

Darla laughs raucously. “Don’t tell my agent, or my career will be over.” She nods over toward the craft table. “Come with me, kid. There’s a doughnut over there with your name on it.”

Trisha’s eyes open wide at the smorgasbord of goodies. “Really? Is that for me, too?”

Darla shrugs. “Someone’s got to eat it. Heck, I can’t. I’ve got to keep my girlish figure. And all the other stars have personal chefs preparing customized meals for their special dietary needs. So, you might as well not let it go to waste.” She takes Trisha’s hand and walks her over.

I’d object to Trisha chowing down on sweets so early in the morning, but why ruin her bonding moment with her doppelganger?

My children are thrilled that they’re “consulting” on the movie with the actors portraying children who are supposed to be their actual ages. But what they find hilarious is that the movie family has parents who are spies.

“The mommy should be a housewife like you,” Trisha points out to me. “Spies are always in danger. If anything happened to her, the children would be sad.”

“I’ll tell the director that she should never get hurt,” I promise to my youngest.

It’s the same vow I plan on keeping for myself.

I’m relieved Jeff has little interest in hanging with Mickey Daniels, the actor playing the Smith boy, Dick, in the movie. As it turns out, my son would much rather be shadowing Whitford and Addison. As the camera rolls, he sticks close enough to Whitford to be his shadow, watching his every move, especially his directions to the cameramen and the cinematographer.

On the other hand, Mickey may be short and slight, but the fact that the make-up crew has to cover up the stubble on his upper lip means he’s already gone through puberty, and all that implies.

He keeps making plays at Mary, but she won’t give him the time of day. She’s having too much fun running lines and hanging out with Fake Mary—really, Rachel Garland, an actress who just turned twenty, and I’m happy to report, seems sweet and level-headed. She is polite to the crew, doesn’t drink or smoke, does yoga and sticks to a vegetarian diet. No wonder the press has crowned her “Hollywood’s Sweetheart.”

“Mom, when Rachel was ten, she put together a list of all the directors she wanted to work with before she reached thirty. She’s already made films with six of them,” Mary says, awed. “I feel like such a slacker.”

I pat her head. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Not everyone realizes their passion at such a young age.”

She frowns. “Still, now that I’m in high school, I should be thinking about the future, about what I really want to accomplish in my life.”

“You’re right. High school is a great time to begin setting goals, and to have new experiences. But know that, at any point, you don’t have to stick to something if it doesn’t feel right. Sometimes the right opportunity presents itself when you least expect it, and sometimes life deals you a different hand than you’d like.”

I speak from experience.

Rachel waves Mary over, and the two girls are off and running. When they’re not on the set, they seem to be within chatting distance of Sebastian.

“It’s all part of Rachel’s long-term plan,” Mary explained. “She told me that great roles start with great writers. She wants to impress him enough that he’ll write her into 
Bloomsbury
.”

I can see why Rachel is already turning heads in Hollywood. If Sebastian doesn’t quite see her potential yet, I have no doubt she’ll find a way to make him change his mind.

It’s between takes on the first day of filming. Counting cast and crew, there are almost three hundred people here on location. Another two hundred-plus hearty souls are involved in either pre- or postproduction.

But from what I can tell, Whitford runs a pretty tight ship. He’s in his mid forties and he has worked with Addison on several of his better-than-break-even action films. Sure, it would have been a real ego trip to have either Scorsese or Affleck as the director, but for all I know, Addison’s references to them was a bunch of hooey, thrown out there in order to impress us and get us onboard.

A lot of the crew are made up of locals, but the core group—assistant directors, second- and third-unit directors, the cinematographer, the key grip, the property master and Leda, our set dresser, not to mention Emma’s boss, Gerard Pruitt, who is head of the make-up department—have worked with Addison on several of his films, and have a non-spoken shorthand that keeps things moving between takes.

The tardiness of the picture’s star has had them all on pins and needles.

Whomever she is, Film Donna has got to be a very big star! Otherwise, why would everyone be this nervous?

And from what Whitford just said, she’ll be here any minute.

Oh my God, I can’t meet her like this—in a yellow polka-dotted sundress and sandals. The dress is one of my favorites, but still—I need to change!

I turn to head back to our cabana when I see Jack trotting my way. “Hey, guess what? Abu has located Serena La Costa. She’s on the mainland, in Caracas, and she’s at least willing to talk to us. Abu’s coming to get us, in a speedboat. Once we’re in town, we’ll have a car to get around. He’ll be here any minute, so we better get cracking.”

“Super! But”—I hesitate, because I know how this will sound: star struck. I take a deep breath and, as nonchalantly as I can, I say—“Whitford just got word that the movie’s Donna will be here any minute. Can we hang around to see who she is?”

Whenever Jack is exasperated, he runs a hand through his hair. I’ve never seen it get stuck in his nice thick dark locks—until now. “You’re kidding me, right? Serena’s testimony gets us off the Most Wanted list, and you’re more concerned about who plays you in this silly movie?”

“You’re just being cruel, Jack. You heard Sebastian—it’s brilliant!”

“Ah, well there you go! The writer of the damn thing says so himself.” He folds his arms against his chest in protest. “And, as both his subject and his supplicant, you agree with him, I presume?”

His remarks are totally uncalled for. I’m just about to tell him where he can stick his sarcasm when an arm goes around my waist.

Sebastian’s.

From the wince on his face, I know he heard what Jack called me. “I say, old boy, it’s not every day one sees one’s life made into a movie. Surely whatever caper you have in mind for—how did you put it? Oh yes, ‘my subject and my supplicant’—can wait until the fake Mrs. Smith has the honor of meeting the woman she’ll bring to life on the screen.”

It’s Jack’s turn to frown. He doesn’t like another man coming to my defense. A girl is supposed to have just one knight in shining armor.

When he sees I’m not budging from my stance, let alone out from under Sebastian’s arm, he bows slightly and mutters, “Theory proven and point taken. Come find me when you’re through paying homage to yourself, so we can get on with our real lives.” He walks off.

“Cheeky bastard,” Sebastian murmurs.

“No, he’s right. It’s truly silly of me to be this…this…silly over something so…well, silly.” He’s got me flustered. We supplicants get that way. To shake it off, I murmur, “You’ll have to excuse me. I was headed back to our cabana.”

He smiles. “Not to change into something else, I hope. You look ravishing as is.”

“Oh! Well, that’s kind of you to say.” I’m still red from all the sun we’re getting, so perhaps he can’t see me blush.

“Donna, I meant what I said to Jack. You’ve done her—and me, for that matter—the honor of bringing you to life on the big screen. Take a few moments to savor it, even if Jack won’t.”

“He’s not used to all this attention. For that matter, I’m not either.” I sigh. “I don’t know how you do it.”

He laughs. “Celebrity has its perks. In my regard, I get to hone my craft, to travel, and to meet those whose lives are a bit more interesting than my own.” He winks at me. “Right now, I’m living vicariously through you.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Then I guess I’ll have to make it as exciting as possible for you.”

His eyes sweep over me. “Thus far, you’re living up to all my expectations.”

I don’t know how to answer him. The whirring sound coming from overhead—a helicopter, from what we can see—saves me from having to do so.

“Ah, she’s finally here! Shall we join the welcoming party?”

He holds out his hand.

Of course I take it. I don’t have time to change, after all—but so what? Sebastian is right, she won’t even notice.

She’ll just be happy to meet me.

I know I’ll feel the same way.

We reach the helicopter just as it starts its descent dead center onto the circular green in the center of the resort’s driveway.

We’re not the only ones there to greet it. The cast and crew are streaming out of the plantation house like the Munchkins, running to meet Glinda, in
The Wizard of Oz
.

She was the good witch, so I’ll take that as a hopeful sign of things to come.

The chopper lands, but it’s hard to see through its tinted glass windows. Finally, the engine is cut and the blades still to a lazy turn.

The door lifts up, and the pilot extends the air stair.

The first to clamber down is the reporter from 
Variety
.

Finally, the long legs of our star, clad in five-inch Christian Dior over-the-knee stiletto boots.

Boots…on a beach?

I’m so fixated on her fashion faux pas that it takes a moment before her face registers with me—

Willow Higginbotham.

Really? The she-devil?

She’s not alone. A harried woman is practically falling out of the helicopter beneath the weight of a six-piece matching set of Louis Vuitton luggage. Considering that the poor thing is wearing chinos from last decade and a turtleneck from the last millennium, I’m guessing the luggage isn’t hers.

Behind her is a very thin man—also in thigh-high boots, and wearing even more makeup than Willow. He too carries luggage, but just one piece: a retro choo-choo case.

The last person to step out is another very thin man. He could be the first one’s twin, down to the boots and the choo-choo. I guess Willow scored a matching set of acolytes as her posse.

Since I’m anything but, I storm back into the plantation house, and directly into Addison’s suite of offices—

Where Addison is dictating an email—

To my son, who is tapping it out on his iPad.

“—on the studio lot. Please note that I did not agree to any terms which some sorry son-of-a-bitch pissant third-rate actor deems necessary—”

“Excuse me?” I shout.

All eyes turn my way.

“Yes, Mrs. Smith, is there something I can do for you?” Addison rolls his eyes—in front of my son, no less.

“I’ll say”—I take a deep breath—“but not in front of my son.”

Addison gives Jeff the high sign. “Scram, kid.”

Jeff frowns as he passes me on his way out the door.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Addison’s congenial tone could lull a baby into a happy stupor.

I am not a baby. Neither am I stupid. It’s time I made that clear to him. “First off, you will not use expletives in front of my son!”

“Wait…” Addison shakes his head in awe. “That kid…he’s yours?”

“Who the heck did you think he was?”